Traces: Grady Thomas Masen
by mybrandofheroin84
Summary: Edward has a younger brother named Grady that was sent away during the Spanish Influenza pandemic. What will happen after Edward is changed? Will he risk his brother's life to keep in contact with him?
1. LaGrippe

**Disclaimer: I do not own or profit from anything Twilight related**

Thank you to my betas SusanAshlea and bloodofbeckie.

**This chapter starts in 1918, in Edward's POV. La Grippe is another term for Spanish Influenza, used at the time of the pandemic.**

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**Character cannot be developed in ease and quiet. Only through experience of trial and suffering can the soul be strengthened, vision cleared, ambition inspired, and success achieved.  
— _Helen Keller, American social activist, public speaker and author (1880-1968)_**

**The measure of a man's character is what he would do if he knew he never would be found out.  
— _Baron Thomas Babington Macauley, English historian and statesman (1800-1859)_**

Edward POV

My father, Edward Masen Sr., has fallen ill with the Spanish influenza, a horrendous disease that causes pneumonia and too often death. Chicago has been one of the first cities to be hit with this wave of epidemic. First was Boston, then New York; it has been hitting port cities and spreading from there to surrounding areas. Soldiers home from deployment to the war are bringing it back with them. Surgeon General Rupert Blue has said the medical society does not yet know whether the soldiers took the influenza with them to the war front, or if it actually started in Spain like it has been rumored. Until recently, not much has been said about the first wave, which primarily struck military camps, such as Fort Riley, Kansas.

All of us here have heard many horrific stories about the high number of soldiers dying from the sickness. I can only say I am glad a virus has no allies, and it is killing the enemy in equal numbers. With the decreasing numbers of soldiers, I have more conviction now than ever to join the Army as soon as I am eligible. I have already been to talk with recruiters to see about joining early. They say they will take me as early as the first day of my birth month, of my eighteenth year. I have nine months yet to go. This shall be an unbearable winter and spring; waiting idle while reading of the horrors that my countrymen are enduring.

My mother, Elizabeth, decided as soon as she knew the influenza had hit the area that she wanted to send Grady and myself away to ride out this viral storm in Nebraska with her cousins. I, of course, refused to go. How can she possibly expect me to leave, to run away? If American men only a year or so older than myself were suffering abroad, I would also stand strong and face it from the home front. Most of them will never know of me or the small sacrifice I have made, but pride and character do not come from what others know you do and praise you for. They come from doing the right thing when no one is watching. What good would it do for me to survive this, if I came out with no character? Grady looked up to me, so it was my responsibility to show him what it means to be decent and respectable. It was especially important to show him what a good man is, with the real possibility that our father may not survive this.

Grady was ten years old, I knew he would be able to make the journey on his own. Furthermore, I was sure we knew a friend, or friend of a friend, that would be going that direction and could accompany him at least part of the way. It crushed me to think of him leaving us, but it was the best thing.

After my father got sick, my mother busied herself with nursing him and worrying about all of us. It was time for Grady to go, so I helped him pack his things and took him to the train station.

"Edward, I don't want to go to Nebraska. Especially if you're not going," my heart broke with the look he gave me as he said this. He wasn't being defiant, only worry and anxiety were apparent in his eyes. For once, I wanted to forget about war, pride, and being a damned hero and just go with him. I wanted to do anything to keep him from feeling this sadness.

I did what I could to comfort him. I gave him a hug, and told him, "I know you don't, Grady, but this is what's best for you. We do not want you getting sick. I am sure you will have a great time. Our cousins have a farm, and you will be so busy exploring and making friends, you won't even have time to wish you were back home." He seemed to be taking this in, though it didn't relieve the worry that was evident on his brow. Instead, it only made his expression look more complicated than any ten-year-old child's should.

I went on, "Look what I've brought, a gift to help pass the time." I gave him the drawing pad and a set of colored pencils I had tucked under my arm. Grady is an excellent artist for his age, he loves to sit and sketch people and scenery. I was never any good at it, but my talent was at the piano.

"Oh! Thank you," he said, as I could see the light returning to his eyes. I knew he was still thinking about all the stresses in his young life, but these would help as a distraction.

We waited for the Abram family, who would be chaperoning him to Sioux Falls, South Dakota. From there, he would be on his own until he met our mother's cousin, Jesse, in Valentine, Nebraska. Jesse and his wife, Irene, lived just outside the small town with their three children— Clara, Louise, and Raymond.

They recognized us first, and came to introduce themselves. "Hello. Edward? I am Albert Abram and this is my wife Rose. As I am sure you know we are friends of your father's. I'm so sorry to hear the influenza has caught him too."

"Ah, yes, hello. Thank you," I replied, returning his handshake and nodding in the direction of his wife. I could read on them straight away that these were genuine souls, which helped to ease my mind a slight bit. "This here is your travelling companion, Grady. You'll never know how much we appreciate you doing this favor for us."

"It's no problem at all," he replied to me. When he shook Grady's hand, my brother seemed happy that someone was acknowledging him as the adult he wished he were. "It's a pleasure to meet you," he said, putting a little extra formality in his voice for Grady's benefit.

"The pleasure's mine Mr. Abram," Grady replied quietly. He was shy, but wanted so badly to be thought mature that he forced out the polite response.

_"All aboard!" _I heard the announcement, and my stomach felt as though it had dropped through the platform. Would I be strong enough to send my brother, my young friend and comrade, away not knowing when or if I would see him again?

I gave him a hug that was long and crushing, hoping to ensure that he would remember for a long time to come that his big brother loves him.

"I'll be okay, Edward. I like these people already. I'll just be sad you don't get to have fun with me." He was trying to calm me. This child, being forced to move across the country, was trying to calm me. He has such an old soul, and knows just how to comfort others.

"I love you Grady. You're a great kid," I said while ruffling his hair, teasing him to lighten the mood.

"I love you too, don't call me a kid," he pouted, but there was still a smile in his eyes.

I chuckled, "Okay I won't, if you promise to be safe and try to stay out of trouble."

"I will." I gave him another quick hug, and he turned to walk with Rose on to the train. I handed his bag to Albert. I waited long enough to see him get in his seat, and mouthed 'goodbye'. I was sure I saw a tear stream down his face. However, it was hard to tell with the tears building up in my own eyes. When the train started its slow roll forward, we waved goodbye to each other. Then he was gone.

My father's fever had been hovering between 101 and 103 degrees, but had dropped some today. Pneumonia had not settled in yet, and we were hopeful for his recovery. The newspapers were printing directions and precautions from the doctors on how to care for the sick. Following these instructions, my father lied in bed all day, my mother fed him broth, we kept the windows open for ventilation, and we only went in his room when necessary. I was taken aback at how fragile and sunken he had become in the short five days since he got sick. He was only a mere ghost of the tall, strong man I knew as my father. It was especially heart wrenching to watch my mother nurse him; she looked almost as ghastly as he did. She was disheveled from head to toe, and there were deep purple circles under her eyes.

Over the next two days, his fever came back and the pneumonia had come to overtake his lungs. He was slowly turning blue for lack of oxygen, which signified the end was very near. He refused the hospital as strongly as he could, given his weak condition. He said that was where all the disease was the worst, and would not be drowned in other people's viruses. At about nine o'clock on the seventh night, he began to cough up bloody phlegm. My mother and I sat by his side as he tried to utter his dying words.

"Edward..." his voice was hoarse, and barely a whisper. His eyes seemed to have trouble finding me, so I leaned closer to be in front of him. Seeing that I was there, he continued, "...you've grown into such an honorable man...take care of your mother and brother." I gently squeezed his hand as my response, not knowing what I could possibly say.

When he looked at my mother, both pairs of eyes got the brightest I had seen them in some time. I could see their thoughts of deep love flowing between them; no words were needed in this moment. I felt almost voyeuristic to see this intimacy. I glanced down, as a way of giving them a small amount of privacy. I had to wonder, would I ever love someone this way?

"Elizabeth...I love you...see you after." With that, he let out a long sigh, and he was gone from our lives forever.

I looked up at my mother, and she was sobbing as hard as her tired, weakened body would let her. I went around to her side of the bed to console her. She stood up to return my hug and immediately lost control of her legs. I was supporting most of her weight as she grabbed hold of my shirt and continued to cry into my chest. In that minute, our roles reversed—I was the one putting on a strong facade to comfort her. For possibly the first time in my life, I recognized her as a woman—one with her own set of worries and grief outside of her children—instead of just a mother and caretaker.

That night, we called the mortician for his assistants to come for my father's body. We would have to go the next day to discuss his funeral.

When I went to bed that night, I knew I would not be sleeping. What I hadn't expected though, were the chills and sweating. I knew what this meant; La Grippe had come for me.

The next morning, I woke after a very small amount of restless sleep. My mother was already up and moving around. I guessed she hadn't slept at all, and was now puttering about to busy herself. I made my way to the kitchen where she was, feeling dizzy the entire way. As soon as she saw me, her expression fell from a sort of nothing to profound grief and worry.

"Edward. You look as bad as I feel," she said with astonishment, laced with worry.

I hated knowing I would have to tell her I had the fever as it meant she would have to nurse me. I didn't want that for her. It had already taken so much out of her to care for her husband, and she needed time to mourn. If I could not take care of myself, I would go to the hospital. I needed to do what I could to ease her suffering.

"Mama," I used a term from my childhood, "my fever started last night."

"Oh, son, you should go back to bed. I'll bring you some soup in a few minutes." She immediately went about the kitchen, preparing my meal.

"Mother, I don't want to have you suffering more while you nurse me. I will go to the hospital if—"

"Nonsense," she interrupted, "I am your mother, and I will nurse you."

I should have known she would refuse. She had never hidden the fact that she loved being a mother, and would do anything within her power to keep us from suffering. If she couldn't, she would use that same fierce determination to make sure someone else could. I obliged her, and went back to bed. However, if and when I got worse, I would take myself to the hospital if she still insisted I stay home.

My mother went to the mortician without me; she took a friend for support instead. She didn't go over the details with me, only told me the funeral would be in two days.

She wasn't looking good, and I was thinking it was more than grief. Later that night, she finally admitted she was developing a fever. I finally convinced her we needed to go to the hospital; we would go first thing in the morning.

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**Hello reader,**

**Thank you for reading this first chapter. If you made it down here to the bottom, then you probably have some thoughts on what you've just read. I would love to hear them!**

**~Meg**

**Follow me on Twitter: mwilkinson84**

I'm a member of Team SOB: teamsob(dot)blogspot(dot)com


	2. Train Ride to Valentine

**Thanks once again goes to my betas SusanAshlea and bloodofbeckie.**

**Valentine is a real town in northern Nebraska. Read on to see Grady's POV of his journey to a new land.**

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**Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot. BY ORDER OF THE AUTHOR.****  
**_**--Mark Twain, Author's Notice in Adventures of Huckleberry Finn**_

**The elastic heart of youth cannot be compressed into one constrained shape long at a time.****  
**_**--Mark Twain, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer**_

**Bitter are the tears of a child: Sweeten them. Deep are the thoughts of a child: Quiet them. Sharp is the grief of a child: Take it from him. Soft is the heart of a child: Do not harden it.****  
**_**--Pamela Glenconner**_

Grady POV

I followed Mr. and Mrs. Abram to our seats, and they let me sit by the window. When I looked out, I saw Edward still standing there on the platform. All of a sudden, I felt really scared that I was leaving home. When I found out I had to leave, I tried to pretend that I was going on a great adventure, like I was Huck Finn. It helped a little, but once I got on the train, I couldn't remember anything about why an adventure away from home would be so great. Edward said goodbye from outside, even though I couldn't hear him. That made me cry a little, I hate it when I cry. I never see Edward cry, he's so tough. He's so brave, he's even going to go fight in the Great War. I don't think I'll ever be that brave. We waved at each other 'till the train was rolling away, and Mrs. Abram said I should sit down.

She was sitting next to me and saw my tear. She wiped it with her handkerchief, then put one of her arms around my shoulders. It felt a lot like my mom's hugs, but not quite as nice. I hoped I didn't have to wait too long to come back home, I missed my mom's hugs already.

The Abrams' had just one daughter, her name was Anna, I think she was eight years old. She was pretty, with brown hair and blue eyes. She sat in front of me with her dad.

When we were getting out of town, I was still sad, but starting to feel a little better. I took out my new drawing pad that Edward gave me and tried to think of what to draw. There wasn't much to look at outside the windows, just a lot of fields. Just then, Anna turned around to see what I was doing, and the light hit her just right, and I knew she was what I had to draw.

I was working so hard on my picture, I didn't notice how long we'd been on the train. After a while, the man working on the train came down the aisle to announce that we would be stopping soon, so I packed up my drawing pad and pencils to get ready to change trains.

Once we got off in Sioux Falls, I had a little time before my next train left, so I went with the Mr. and Mrs. Abram, and Anna to eat some lunch. We bought some sandwiches and found a bench to sit on while we ate. After a few minutes, it time for me to get on my next train. I said goodbye to Anna; Mrs. Abram gave me another hug and said goodbye. Then, Mr. Abram walked me to my train, and helped me get to my seat with my suitcase. He gave me a pat on the shoulder, and said goodbye, then made sure the man who worked on the train knew where I was supposed to get off so I didn't get lost.

I was on the train for another couple hours. I fell asleep for a little bit, but couldn't sleep very well, with the noises on the train. Somebody had a little baby that was not happy about being here.

I got bored again, so I took out the drawing pad. I hoped I wasn't going to be this bored when I got there, or I would run out of paper too quick. We were going through more fields, and I saw some cows eating, sort of out in the distance. I didn't see them for a long time, so I had to draw them mostly from memory. I couldn't wait to take these back home to show Edward, and my mom and dad.

By the time I got done with that picture, the train was pulling into its stop at Valentine, Nebraska. It's not really a station, just a platform for people to wait on, with a broken up sign that said the town's name. My mom's cousin, Jesse, was waiting for me on his small wagon that was pulled by a horse. I wasn't used to seeing horses and wagons when I was in the city. I was not in the city anymore, I was sure of that. I got off the train with my suitcase, and Jesse came to carry it for me. Neither one of us said very much on the way back to his farm. I had never met him before so I didn't know what to say, and he seemed like he probably never talked, to me or anyone.

When we got back to his house, he introduced me to his wife Irene, and their kids Clara, Louise, and Raymond. Clara was oldest, she was 13; she only just nodded at me before she went back to helping Irene in the kitchen. Louise was my age, she came over and almost whispered hello; she was shy like me. Raymond was 9 years old, he came right over and stuck out his hand and told me to call him Ray; he was very opposite of me, but he was friendly and I knew we would probably be good friends.

Every day, Ray and I went outside right after breakfast and worked on whatever chores Jesse asked us to do that day. When we got done with chores, it was time for lunch, then back outside. Only, in the afternoon we didn't have any more chores, so we went around playing until dinner time.

From their farm, we were surrounded by Valentine to the west, Minnechaduza Creek to the north, and Niobrara River to the southeast; all about a mile away. This meant we had plenty of area to cover and explore while I was here. We made pretty good progress in just a couple of weeks. We weren't allowed to go past the rivers, so we walked all the way along them, tracing the inside of the triangle they formed. A lot of times, I liked to imagine we were Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, finding adventure and trouble and letting them find us.

After about two weeks of roaming around the edges of our borders, we decided walk around the town. Ray introduced me to some of his friends in town, and showed some of his favorite places. The mail came in today, so we went by the Post Office before heading back to his house for dinner. We didn't even look at the pieces of mail he carried until we were already almost back. That's when I saw there was something with my name on it. Why was it from the Chicago Mercy Hospital, and not from my family?

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**R****eader,**

**Once again, thank you for reading. Questions, comments, or concerns? Feel free to click on the review button and let me hear them.**

**-Meg**


	3. Controlling The Flames

**Thank you so much, you wonderful ladies who beta my work—SusanAshlea and bloodofbeckie.**

Carlisle has not always had such an easy time with his thirst. Read about his personal growth from a troubled newborn to the compassionate doctor we know today.

O who shall me deliver whole,  
From bonds of this Tyrannic Soul?  
Which, stretcht upright, impales me so,  
That mine own Precipice I go;  
And warms and moves this needless Frame:  
(A Fever could but do the same.)  
And, wanting where its spight to try,  
Has made me live to let me dye.**  
A Body that could never rest,  
****Since this ill Spirit it possest.****  
**** ~Andrew Marvell (1621-1678)**

Feed a flame within, which so torments me  
That it both pains my heart, and yet contains me:  
'Tis such a pleasing smart, and I so love it,  
That I had rather die than once remove it.**  
**** ~John Dryden (1631-1700)******

**There is no one subsists by himself alone.****  
****Owen Feltham**** (1602-1668)****  
**  
Carlisle POV

For greater than two hundred and fifty years, I have struggled with what I am; battled with the intense thirst that has scorched my gullet. From the dawn of my eternity, when I awoke on a heap of rotting potatoes in a cellar of London, I vowed to myself and to those of my kind that I would not succumb to the monstrous nature of the evil being that sentenced me to this life. I roamed the countryside; for fear that wandering too close to civilization would cause my bloodlust to overrule my steadfastness. As the days blurred into weeks, my immortal body did not perish, it only became weak, and my mind weary. Never, other than the transformation itself, had I felt such flames. I could not, and would not die, only suffer in this despair. My surroundings began to be distorted, and even the doe by the river seemed appealing to me. Then, like a flash, the idea struck me. Had I not eaten venison in my previous life? The thought now seemed trivial and silly, why had I not remembered this sooner? As I got closer to the deer, my instinct washed over me, and I drank her dry. She had not even known I was coming; I was far superior to any hunter. My fire was not fully drenched, and so I took another, and another, until the flame was but a dull flicker. No more than a quiet reminder of what I was; what I still am.

For all these years, I have struggled to restrain my reflexes; to squelch my instinct that tells me to kill humans. Since I metamorphosed into the beast that I am, I have practiced my control and studied the Medical Science, so that one day I could become a doctor. I am an evil creature by design, and saving humans reminds me of what I used to be. It helps me to have a clear conscience and a lighter soul. Others may not believe we have souls—and this could be true—but I do believe, and want to know I have done some good on this Earth when I go to meet the Maker.

Almost sixty years after my fateful change, I met a coven of vampyres who are a more civilized group, like myself. The Volturi live in the city of Volterra, Italy; they have quite the exceptional accommodations there. The Volturi live the more traditional way of the vampyre, feeding on humans. Although I abstained from that bill of fare while staying with them, it was not enough to keep my conscience clear. I felt as if I was an accomplice, and it was a futile effort trying to convince them that my way was the superior choice. I stayed for some thirty years before our conflicting lifestyles became too much for me. It forced me to look inside myself and make the decision to move on.

From there, I made the move to the British Colonies. It was a fresh start, and the people had begun to forget about the old legends of vampyres. I have taken extreme pleasure in watching the Colonies grow into the wonderful Nation it is today. Moving from place to place has become a large part of my life since coming to the United States of America. So far, I have moved twenty-five times. I moved more often at first, because I was nervous that the local citizens would become suspicious when I didn't age. I was changed at the age of twenty-three, so it can be difficult to pass for anything beyond thirty. Since the earlier days, I have become more confident that people do not think I am something sinister. To help keep myself from suspicion, though, I have learned ways to appear older; I have styled my hair and wardrobe in slightly different ways as time went on, sometimes I wore glasses just because it is what people would expect of an aging man.

In the Spring of 1911, I treated a young lady by the name of Esme Platt for her broken leg. She was a lovely sixteen year old, and I could not help but be intrigued by her. It seemed as though she was a bit taken with me as well. I knew I could not allow her to develop any schoolgirl crush, that would be entirely too dangerous for both of our well-beings. I saw her once more after I tended her broken bone, in a follow-up visit. That was when I made my final decision. I would have to move on. I took two weeks to plan out my move, so as to keep the local citizens from thinking anything untoward of me or my sudden Exodus. I went back to look in on her a few times after my move, without her ever knowing. Six years later, she married a Mr. Charles Evenston. Because she seemed happy in marriage, I decided it would be best that I not keep checking in on her.

The following year was the most horrific outbreak I had ever seen. The Spanish Influenza was likened to the Black Plague of Medieval times. In the Fall of 1918, it picked up steam and continued to killed in the hundreds of thousands locally, and in the millions globally. I felt more fulfilled then as a doctor than ever before. Humans needed my help, and I could work long hours tirelessly, tending to the sick. It was in this outbreak in September that I met Elizabeth and Edward Masen. My life would change forever again after that night.

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The night started out like any other night. I was on my way back to the Mercy Hospital for another night shift. As I made my way to the physician's changing room, I passed some of the other hospital staff. They all looked so exhausted and tormented. It pained me to have to leave the ill, the defenseless each day. It pained me even more to leave these dedicated doctors, nurses, and volunteers here to care for the sick. I did not need the rest; I merely had to go home each day so it looked as though I rested, so that I would not expose my secret. I also had to make my way outside the town limits every couple of days to hunt. When I finished changing, I went out to the nurse's station to get an update on the patients.

"We have had fifteen deaths since you left, and twenty new patients have come in. All the same—bloody sputum, pneumonia, cyanosis—all at different stages," one of the nurses rattled off as I approached. It was sad to know she had become hardened by so much death; I remembered she once was sweet and compassionate.

I worked through the night, and was planning to stay past the end of my shift. At around seven o'clock, another small wave of patients filed in. Among them were Elizabeth and Edward. Edward was a strapping lad; I knew he must have only been sixteen or seventeen, since he was not yet in the War. Elizabeth looked haggard from illness, but I could see that she was a beautiful woman under better circumstances. She had auburn hair that was very unique, save for her son's hair that carried the same hue. In fact, they looked very similar overall, only he had a more masculine edge in his features.

The volunteers led the newest patients to find beds. There weren't many left to spare, but we tried to make do and fit everyone in. The nurses started making rounds, asking about the patients' symptoms and getting them whatever they needed to make them comfortable until a doctor could come around. I worked through the room, over to Elizabeth, and she looked even worse than she had thirty minutes ago when she arrived. I could tell her health was declining very rapidly, even for this virus it was going quick. I went through the motions of checking her vital signs, even though I could already hear that her heart was beating too slowly, and her breathing was too labored.

As a doctor for many years, I have seen death more than I would like to admit. It is never something pleasant, but you can learn a lot about a person's life through their death. Elizabeth Masen led a good life, and had been loved by many people. Now, close to death, with one foot on the other side, she was at peace with going to the beyond.

When I placed my hand on her forehead, she shrunk away. I should have expected that, my skin was already cold, but with her fever it would seem even more so. As she looked at me, a sudden awareness seemed to sweep over her. Whether it was some superstition she held, or a woman's intuition, or the clarity of person at death's door; I will never know. I do know this: Elizabeth Masen knew at that moment that I was not human.

"Are you the Angel of Death?" She asked in barely a whisper.

"No, ma'am, I am not," was all that I could bring myself to say in my stupor.

"I know that it is too late for me, doctor. I want to go see my husband, anyway. But, I do know you have a way to save my Edward. I want you to do whatever you can to save him." I knew that it was taking every ounce of her energy to speak, so I tried to quiet her with a wave of my hand.

"Mrs. Masen, I don't think—" I started.

She mustered up all the strength she could; I could see the fire, passion, and love for her son. "Please Dr. Cullen, you must do what you can, I cannot leave this world in peace knowing that my son, Edward, is going to leave before his time. He is too young to suffer this fate. He has not seen any of the world yet, has not experienced life yet." She coughed, and then continued, "You must promise me that you will do whatever you can to keep him from dying. Promise me that."

"I promise," was all that I could say. I was shocked, scared, and most of all I was in awe of the strength in this woman. She had many of the qualities I would hope for in a mate, if I ever were to allow myself to hope for a mate.

She smiled weakly, and breathed out her final words, "Please tell Edward and Grady that I love them."

After she struggled through a few more ragged breaths, Elizabeth Masen passed into another world with a gentle smile on her lips.

**Dearest Reader,**

Thank you for continuing to read my story! It makes me happy that I've held your interest and attention for more than just a couple of chapters. I continue to try to better myself as an author. One of the best ways for me to know where I have room for improvement is by others' feedback. Whether it is a compliment or a bit of constructive criticism, please feel free to leave me your opinion.

~Meg


	4. Grief and Recovery

**Thank you once again, as always, to my betas bloodofbeckie and SusanAshlea.**

This is Irene's point of view. See what this portion of the story looks like through her eyes. Please keep in mind that the grammar and spelling are incorrect on purpose. Irene was a poorly educated woman from a small town in the Great Plains; her language skills show her as such.

Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up.  
--Pablo Picasso

Grief can't be shared. Everyone carries it alone, his own burden, his own way.  
--Anne Morrow Lindbergh

What soap is for the body, tears are for the soul.  
--Jewish Proverb  
  
Irene POV

This aft'noon was stiflin hot. I was in the kitchen with Clara, we's fixin supper for when the men got home. Just when I was takin the biscuits out o' the oven, I saw Grady and Raymond runnin up the drive. It looked like they had got the mail while they's in town. Good thing, it was one less thing for me to have to do t'morrow. Grady looked awful worried, but then again he looked worried since he got here two weeks ago. But I think there 'as something diff'rent about him just now.

Grady was a good boy, never gave Jesse and me any problems, he did what we asked him. He needed a lot of help when he first got here, him being from the city and all; he wasn't used to doing this type o' work. I've felt so sad for him ever since he came here. His brother, Edward, was s'posed to be comin out here with him, but it turns out he actually wants to go off to th' war. So here was this ten year old boy, half way 'cross the country from his home, puttin on a brave face for us. I tried to talk to him about how he was takin it, but he didn't want nuthin to do with talk of feelings.

"Why th' long face honey?" I asked Grady when they got to the porch.  
His eyes grew to the size of a buffalo's; he was sure worried 'bout somethin. "I..I..got some mail from Chicago…from the hospital."

"Well, what did it say? Was it from your ma?" I asked, thinkin he would already've read it.

"I don't know. I didn't open it. Will you read it to me?" I know he can read, probly 'bout as good as me, or better. But, I could tell he could barely hold hisself together with all the worryin. So I read it to him.

Dear Mr. Grady Masen,

My name is Dr. Carlisle Cullen, I work at Mercy Hospital. It is my understanding that you have gone to stay with some family of your Mother's. It is my hope that this letter finds you in good health.

Your Mother and Edward both came into the Hospital with the same Spanish Influenza that your Father had before you left. I truly regret to inform you that your Father, Mother, and brother have all three passed away from their illness.

It would be best if you stay where you are, I trust that you will be able to stay there with your extended family. There was already a service for your Father, and there is to be a very simple service for both your Mother and Edward. There will be no need for you to come here for the service, as you would put yourself at great risk coming into a disease-ridden city.

I am very truly sorry for your loss.

Very Sincerely Yours,

Dr. Carlisle Cullen

By the time I got done readin, Grady turned into a whole diff'rent child. His color was gone, and he looked like he wanted to cry, but the shock of the letter wouldn't let 'im. He just stood there, like he'd just gone deaf and dumb. I ain't never seen nothin like it before or since.

I went over to him, to try and comfort him. I hugged him close, and he finally let go the tears that had been tryin to spill just before.

"That's right, honey, you just cry 'till you can't cry no more," I cooed as I rubbed circles across his back. I sat with him on his bed, rubbin those same circles on his back, 'till he finally cried hisself to sleep.

That night, Jesse came in later than usual and I told what'd happened. "What are we going to do, Jesse? We can't send him away, he doesn't have nobody in the world left but us. I won't see any of our kin end up in an orphanage."

"I wouldn't think of sendin him away; he'll stay here with us." Jesse never said much, but what he did say was always straight from his big ol' heart.

All night, I could hear Grady crying through the paper thin walls. Sometimes it's just a whimper, other times it's full on sobs and moans. It was all I could do to not run to him an' hug him an' comfort him. I may not o' been his mother, but I was a mother still, and it was breaking my heart to a million pieces to know he 'as holding an amount of grief no one, no matter their age, should need to bear.

The next mornin, I started to plan a memorial service for his folks, since he couldn't go up to Chicago for their funeral. I hoped this'd help him have some kind of closure. Plus, I needed somethin to keep me busy; if I watched him cry anymore, I'd've started sobbin myself, and he didn't need to see cryin'. I invited the preacher over, and some of the neighbors too. All day, he laid in bed; I took him soup and bread since he wouldn't even come out to join us at the table.

The next day, everyone came over. The preacher said some nice things, about dyin and goin to heaven and such. All the townsfolk came and said nice things to Grady, there wasn't much they could say about his family, seein as how nobody knew 'em. But everybody brought food, and that's a big way we in the Plains show we care.

Grady was able somehow to keep his eyes dry that day. Maybe it was because he already cried everythin he had to cry in the couple of days before. His eyes might've been dry, but he was still the livin example of pure sadness. As he should be, I couldn't imagine knowin I'd just lost all the people in the world that meant anythin to me. I don't know what I'd do without Jesse or the kids. Anytime someone said anythin to him, he jus' nodded, and kept his eyes on the ground.

~*~

Over the next month, Grady didn't say much to any of us. He did what we asked him to, he answered when we asked 'im somthin, he went through the motions of livin. He was just a shell of the boy he'd been before.

About a month after the letter came, there was finally a day when I saw a bit of the old Grady. Just like rain in August though, it was gone as soon as it'd come. A couple weeks later, I saw it again; but again, it was gone too quick.

With time, these moments became days of almost happiness. And after a coupl'a months, these days got closer and closer together. He even started to drawin again, only on some of the better days, though. Around Christmas, he was in the middle of recovern, where even his bad days weren't as bad as the good ones'd been in the beginning. Christmas, though, was hard on him, which made it pretty hard on all us, too. He went back to bein the person that he'd been right after his folks died. This day of family gatherin was just too much of a reminder of what he didn't have no more.

In a fit of grief one day, he up and threw away his drawin pad, so I decided to buy him one for Christmas. As soon as he opened it, he just froze up. I couldn't tell if he was excited or just sad. There was just nothin on his face at all. After a couple minutes just standin there starin at the papers, he dropped it and ran off. He cried and cried all day. I felt so guilty for buyin him somethin that would make him feel bad.

"I thought that'd make him happy to have some drawin paper again," I admitted to Jesse. "I just don't know what I'm doin here, I guess."

"I'll go talk to him," Jesse said as he went off to the kids' room.

Jesse's a great man, but I was surprised he'd offered. He loved that boy like he's one of our young'uns, but he was never one to handle emotional problems. But, Jesse lost his brother a few years back, so I guess he had a better idea how Grady was feelin. After an hour or so, he came out and said Grady was doin better, but would probly be in his room for a while still.

~*~

Spring came to the Great Plains, and with it, new life was breathed into our lives. Grady's spirits'd recovered, and the economy was better'n the year before. We planted more wheat than we'd ever had, and we knew we'd have a big harvest. It seemed that getting out in the fields after a long winter inside was helping ev'rybody. Grady worked alongside Jesse, and thrived havin somethin to keep his hands and mind busy. I still noticed there'd be times when he'd get lost in his thoughts, and I knew he was thinkin 'bout his mama, papa, or Edward. Those were the days he took to his drawin pad more than any other day.

"Irene?" Grady said on a lazy, rainy aft'noon.

"What's on your mind, honey?"

"Thank you."

"Well, you're welcome. But what for?"

"Just...for everything."

**Reader,**

Hello again, I hope you are still enjoying the story. This is all I have completed as of today (Nov 23). Do not worry though! I have two more coming very soon. As always, I enjoy feedback, good or bad.

~Meg


	5. The Voice

**Beckie, I love you and you have helped me with this story more than you know. SusanAshlea, thank you for being such a wonderful beta, and for not complaining when I don't send you anything for a month.

* * *

He ne'er is crowned with immortality Who fears to follow where airy voices lead.  
--John Keats**

Voice comes to you through a spell, a trance. The best voices are not you... they're a little away from you.  
--Barry Hannah

Hearing voices no one else can hear isn't a good sign, even in the wizarding world.  
--J. K. Rowling

**Here is another Edward point of view. It is extremely short, but says what it needs to.**

EPOV

The voice. The voice had been in my head since the day I woke up from my change. Unlike so many of the other voices I heard in my mind this one had been very quiet. I could never quite make out what it was saying. Listening to it was like trying to hear a person whispering from the back of a crowded room. I always knew the voice was there, but I could never focus on it long enough to understand it.

For the first year of infancy in my new eternal life, my bloodlust was so strong that it took most of my concentration and willpower to not succumb to it. It was not until after some years had passed and I had developed some control over my monstrous side that I could begin to focus on the power I had been bestowed.

When I found that I could start to drown out the voices of the minds around me, I finally was able to start pulling that voice to the forefront of the space inside my head. It was easier to focus when I went hunting in the forest. All other voices were gone, save for the one that never left. I still could not pick up on exactly what was being said, but without the voices of everyone else's mind, I could try to concentrate on that one tiny whisper in the back of my mind.

It was when I was alone in the quiet confines of the woods, fields, and mountains that I could hear that the whispers were not words at all; they were soft, hushed sobs. Somewhere, a heart was breaking. Whoever it was, this person was not like just any other person, for I could hear them even though they were nowhere near me. Something that did not even happen with Carlisle, whom I felt closer to than anyone else. I felt a strong pull to this voice, like I should be getting back to it somehow. Who was this sad person that this voice belonged to? What did they mean to me? Where would I find them?

* * *

**Readers and (hopefully) fans,**

I'm sorry this one is so short. There is another coming in it's wake very shortly.

It warms my heart when that little alert lands in my email inbox. You know what to do. Big mushy ((hugs)) for anyone who reviews!

~Meg


	6. Memoirs Of An Old Man

**Thank you to Team Meg! This chapter would be eerily void of all contractions without SusanAshlea. Thank you so much Sue for your watchful eye. Lee, your snarky comments and numerous prereads are more help than you know. Last but not least, Beckie...I don't even know what to say...eh well you always know what I'm thinking with out me having to say it anyway. Here's to you ladies! Love you!**

**I still miss those I loved who are no longer with me  
but I find I am grateful for having loved them. The  
gratitude has finally conquered the loss.  
-- Rita Mae Brown**

**It is not the years in the life, but the life in the years that count.  
~Unknown

* * *

**

**The year is 1974 and Grady is sitting down to write out his memoirs...**

**Grady's POV**

I am an old man of sixty-seven years and I have seen many things in my life; some bad, a lot of good, but every moment has been worth the effort. My earlier years have begun to get fuzzy in my mind, so I feel it is time to start writing the things I can still remember. I have no delusions that my life is so grand in the great scheme of the universe, but I would like to be remembered by my family. I don't think I will be alive for many more years as the doctors say I have black lungs from all the dust of the Dust Bowl in the 1930s.

If you are one of my children or grandchildren reading this, I hope you learn to live each day like it could be your last and to treat your loved ones like it could be theirs. If you are not of my family, I hope the same thing for you, but also, I am humbled that you are taking the time to read the musings of an old man.

***

My mother, Elizabeth, sang every morning and brought life into our home with her lively spirit, decorations, plants, stray pets, art, and anything else that struck her fancy. What I loved about her most of all was her art. She drew, painted, sculpted—as long as it was creative, she dabbled in it. She started a different creative project with every whim and mood that overcame her. That has been my favorite attribute to have inherited from her. When I am creating, I not only feel peaceful and free, but I feel that she is a part of me.

Although Father and I were not alike, we got along much in the same way he and Mother did. They were opposites but complemented each other. They were like peas and carrots—one could not be without the other. Both were beyond happy to accept each other's differences.

Edward and I were opposites in almost every way. He was the strong, brooding, dependable, silent type like Father. I, on the other hand, have always been considered the light-hearted dreamer, the eccentric artist if you will, like our mother. But oh, how I looked up to my big brother, no matter our differences.

Physically though, it was the other way around. I had always been told I looked like our father, and Edward took after our mother. Edward and Mother had green eyes, odd coppery brown hair, and a slim build, just taller than average. Father had and I have dark blond hair, blue eyes, and a tall but slightly stocky frame.

My earliest memory is of my parents, my brother, and myself on a picnic. My mother loved to take us out for picnics—she was a big believer in fresh air and sunshine being vital to one's health. Back then, those were the type of days I looked forward to. It felt as though no one and nothing could burst our bubble of happiness when we were at the park together.

Edward was always too bored to spend time with us—I assumed he wished he could be off with his chums doing whatever it was the big kids did. It was the summer of 1915, I was six years old and Edward was almost fourteen, so it made sense that he wouldn't want to associate with a mere child. However, at that age all I wanted was for my brother to think of me as another one of his friends and not just his 'kid brother.'

That particular day I asked him to play catch with me, and he obliged. At first, he seemed as burdened as always, but he did start to enjoy himself shortly after we started. We continued to have a wonderful afternoon. It wasn't until the sun began to set for the day that we had to be dragged away from the park.

Nowadays, it's memories like those that I hold dear to my heart. It's during dark times in my life, when I dwell on the loss of my family, that I hold especially tight to the fond memories from those precious few years inside our happy bubble.

***

The fall of 1918 was, for me, the end of life as I knew it and the beginning of an altogether new one.

The Spanish Influenza pandemic was spreading like wildfire around all the major cities and was quickly expanding everywhere in between. My mother decided that Edward and I should go stay with her cousin, Jesse, and his family in Nebraska so that we could avoid the virus as long as possible. My father wouldn't have been able to leave his work at the law firm, and Mother would always be wherever he was. While I was scared and sad at the thought of leaving my parents, I had somewhat looked forward to an adventure with Edward. He had other plans, though, and refused to go, which broke my heart. I was only ten years old and I was scared to go to a new place alone. The thought that my older brother would not be with me deeply upset me.

Even then, I knew why he wanted to stay; he would not admit it to me, but he was trying to put on a brave face and stay where life would be hardest. I loved Edward dearly, but even at that young age I knew that he always played the part of the martyr. He wanted me to look up to him as a brave man. Little did he know, I already did, no matter what sickness he battled or what war he went off to fight. Maybe I should have told him as much back then, but what has been done has been done, and I cannot change it now.

When Father became ill, I secretly wished he had left his job and took the whole family to Nebraska instead of waiting until it was too late. However, in those days, children were seen and not heard and although I was loved very much, my ideas would not have been taken to kindly. With the Influenza taking residence in our home like it had in so many others' already, it was time for me to go. Edward helped me pack my things and took me to the train station. After meeting the Abramses, the family chaperoning me part of the way to Nebraska, Edward and I said our goodbyes. I will never forget the immense feeling of foreboding I felt that day. I didn't have the clarity in my young mind to know exactly what I was feeling, but I now know it was a dark premonition of what was to come.

While he wore a warrior's mask, it was the first time that I had seen the sad young boy in Edward's eyes. I watched a single tear slip down his face, and I lost myself in the streams of my childish tears.

My time on the train was spent attempting to keep myself occupied. The Abramses were pleasant enough, but I already missed my family terribly. It was all I could do to hold myself together. I believed at the time that if I did a good enough job of pretending to be strong, that everything really would turn out to be okay.

I did my best to put the bad thoughts out of my head. I told myself it was just my silly worrying settling in, that nothing very terrible was actually going to happen. I had heard that some people did, in fact, survive La Grippe, so I immaturely let myself believe that if anyone could survive, it would be my father.

Valentine, Nebraska was a dusty, sleepy little town I fantasized was straight out of one of the Old West stories that Father had read to me. As Jesse took me from the train station through town to get to his farm, I imagined outlaws coming out of the saloon to engage in a duel, a kindly older Indian man telling scary stories to local children, and a suave store owner enticing young ladies to buy their fabrics from his shop.

The Doherty farm was not a large site, but it also wasn't like some of the other, smaller farms surrounding Valentine. It was seventy five acres, and most of that was grassy feeding ground for the cows. The house, barn, and small crop field were all situated on the western corner of the farm, with the cattle-grazing area taking up the rest. The Niobrara River ran along the eastern border, providing the cows with water—and me a place to daydream.

I did my best to throw myself into my new, albeit temporary, family. Irene and Jesse had three children—Clara, Louise, and Raymond. Although I was closest in age to Louise, it was Raymond that I got along with the best. Lucky for me, living in the Great Plains was much more about hard work and a strong sense of morality, all of which could be learned at home just as easily as at school. As a result, school was not heavily enforced in that area. Irene felt that I needed friend that could show me around the farm and town, so Ray (as he forcefully asked to be called) was allowed to stay home to show me the ropes for a couple weeks.

Even though he was a couple years younger than me, Ray immediately took me under his wing and showed me all around the house, the farm, the town, and everywhere else we were allowed—and not allowed—to go. He taught me the ways of country living. We skipped rocks, caught toads, and played pranks back and forth with some of the other local boys.

We were required to do chores each and every day. They were mostly simple tasks, such as feeding their handful of chickens, collecting eggs, and bringing in firewood. On occasion, when I was awake early enough, Jesse took me out so that I could help milk the cows. Their little world on their all but self-sufficient farm seemed as though it was an entirely separate universe from the busy streets of Chicago.

One day, after I had been living with Jesse and Irene for about two weeks, Ray and I went into town. While we were there, we stopped by the Post Office to pick up any mail that had come for his parents. I was surprised to see that I had received a letter from a doctor in Chicago. I would never forget his name—Dr. Carlisle Cullen. I felt my stomach twist into impossibly tight knots as soon as I had seen who sent it. This was what my premonition had been about.

Although I could read, I could not bring myself to open the envelope and decipher what, in that moment, surely would have looked like nothing but ink blots on a sheet of paper. I carried the letter home with me. It felt as though it weighed a ton. Once inside the farmhouse, I asked Irene to read it to me.

He had written me to tell me about the death of my entire family. I don't even remember having any conscious thought. All I remember was the feeling that the sheet of paper could have been a sword, aimed directly at my soul. My world fell apart that day. There was no slow crumbling of my spirit, there was no process of realization of what had happened. It was an instantaneous implosion of my heart.

A few days—I am not sure how many as the days were a gloomy blur—after I received the God-forsaken letter from Chicago, Irene put on a memorial service. She didn't know my father or brother, but I believe the gathering was more an attempt to give me closure than for anyone else to actually remember my family.

That was where I first met Jewel. She was the loveliest thing I had ever laid eyes upon. Although I had no concept at the time of how important she would be in my life, I knew I was immediately drawn to her. She had reddish golden hair that bounced around her head in fluffy waves; the most brilliant green eyes, with tiny streams of blue flowing through them; and my, she had freckles galore.

I found out later that she had been in town to visit an elderly aunt of hers, and was to leave the day after the memorial service. I had been meandering around the farmhouse, nodding my head and shaking hands at the appropriate places in conversation as a continuous stream of strangers gave their condolences. I was feeling particularly alone that day. As if it was not hard enough to be a newly orphaned child, I was expected to exchanges pleasantries with all those people that I didn't know. I was alone in a sea of people.

Jewel walked up to me with a flower in her hand and her head bowed. I could tell straight away that she was shy and for her to approach me took great effort on her part.

"Hello," she whispered. If not for being in a mostly empty room, I would not have heard her greeting.

"Hello, miss," was my simple reply. She lifted the flower and extended it towards me. "Thank you."

"I'm sorry about your family." Again, she spoke at a barely audible level. But this time she raised her head to look at me as she spoke. It was then that I noticed her eyes. They were mostly green, but there were tiny rivulets of blue. A perfect match to the flower I held in my hand.

I wasn't sure what to say in response. Instead, we stood in silence for at least a full minute, shuffling our feet. I wanted to say something more, to find out who she was, but our moment was over too soon.

"Jewel! There you are, I have been looking all over for you," a rather haggard older lady called out as she rounded the corner into the room where we stood. Jewel whipped her head around to look at the woman.

"Coming Auntie Bess." She turned back to me and said, slightly louder than she had spoken to me before, "I'm sorry, I have to go."

I simply nodded and thanked her again.

I hardly remember anything that happened over the next several months. I felt as if I was an empty shell that simply resembled a human being, void of any soul or emotion. I had a voice, but could not speak. I had eyes, but could see nothing clearly. My heart beat, but only out of the pure necessity of keeping my limbs and organs functioning. I do, however, remember the terrible nightmares I suffered and the sensation of a boulder of grief resting on my empty chest.

The one tiny hope I had was that I would meet Jewel again. I couldn't explain, even to myself, why I continued to think about her. All I knew was that thoughts of her were the only bright moments in my life that winter.

Six months passed before I began to feel the weight lift. I had started school once it became clear that I was not going back home, though I don't remember most of what went on there. It seemed as though the fresh spring season brought with it a breath of reprieve into my soul. It was also then that Jewel walked back into my life, this time for good.

Jewel's family was one of the many families that moved to the Great Plains with dreams of a better life. They moved to Valentine in a horse-drawn wagon with high hopes and low funds. Her family consisted of her mother, father, and four younger brothers—John, James, Joseph, and Julius—ages eight, six, four, and two respectively. They were all troublemakers, except for Julius, but I was sure it wouldn't be long before he too was getting in on the chaos. Those boys were always playing pranks and running amuck all over their tiny patch farm. How their mother had any sanity left is beyond me.

The buffalo that were native to those lands had been killed off by the first settlers there. With the disappearance of the herds, land was empty for the taking. At the time, it seemed like prime ground for farming, except there was not nearly enough rain to support the crops. The government neglected to mention the lack of precipitation and had been giving away acres of land to anyone who showed up to ask for it. People that had been in the area for a long time, such as Jesse and Irene, knew it was a bad idea to take up the grass for farming since the grass was the only thing that could grow there. Jesse and Irene knew better than to clear the grass on their farm so they raised milk cows instead. The cows fed off the grass; in turn, fertilizing the grass; and we made money from the milk, butter, and cream. It was a nearly perfect ecosystem on their farm.

Jewel and I quickly became inseparable. She was the same age as me so she sat near me in the one-room schoolhouse we attended. Jewel often came to dinner at Jesse and Irene's home, but I was not allowed to eat at hers. There were already enough mouths to feed there, Irene said. I wasn't very upset about it though, because of my distaste for her brothers' antics. I walked her home after school on the days she didn't come for dinner, and I was also allowed to sit with her family at church each Sunday.

With her rare looks, some of the other children had considered her worthy of their ridicule. One Sunday afternoon after church, Jewel and I were taking a walk around the building while we waited for our parents to finish socializing with the other adults. As we rounded the corner to walk along the backside of the church, we saw Harry with his two minions, Willie and Jett, flanking his sides. These boys were a bit older than us and were well known for their bullying ways. I had thought Jewel's brothers were a bad lot, but they seemed like church mice compared to the boys that were suddenly in front of us. A sly, evil grin spread over Harry's face when he saw us there, alone.

"Hey Grady," he said with a nod in my direction. He then turned towards Jewel and asked me, "What're ya doin' hangin' around with Carrot Top here?" Judging by his insult and his tone of voice, he was in the mood to pick a fight.

I looked down at Jewel, and she was simply staring at the ground. We hadn't been friends for a long time at that point, but I could tell that she was used to this type of teasing before moving to Valentine. Well, I was not about to let that happen anymore. My father had tried to instill a sense of chivalry in his sons. I remembered seeing Edward stand up to some ruffians in defense of a vulnerable, elderly lady once. I decided then to put into practice what I had learned from the men in my previous life.

"Do not call her that." I tried to sound as serious and commanding as possible without raising my voice. I feared that raising my voice would only provoke him further.

"Oh, so now yer stickin' up fer her? I'd think twice befer getting involved like that, Masen." He continued to walk closer, until he was directly in front of me. Although he was a couple years older, I was still nearly his size. The only thing what made him more powerful than me was the fact that his buddies were backing him up.

I looked down at Jewel again, this time she was looking up at me, her eyes brimming with tears. "You had better get out of here, Jewel."

"B-but what about you, Grady?" She asked, barely above a whisper.

"I'll be fine, don't worry about me. Just go and find your parents." I hoped the mention of adults might deter Harry from demanding that the situation come to blows. With that, Jewel spun on her heels and ran back in the direction we had come from. I turned back to my opponent.

"That's awful nice, what you done fer her. But it's real stupid fer you, Masen," he growled at me. He grinned back at his sidekicks, most likely making sure they were still willing to be at his beck and call.

"I don't mind sticking up for her. Besides, you should be picking on someone your own size."

"You mean…like you?" That lit a spark in his eyes as he realized I was practically inviting him to pick on me. "I don't think you know what yer gettin' yerself in fer."

"Look Harry, if we're going to do this, then let's do this. You and me. Tell Willie and Jett to stay back."

He thought over my offer, debating whether he wanted to fight one of his own fights by himself. At that point, however, it would have been bully-status suicide to back down from me.

"Fine," he glared at me. He turned to his flanks and said with a sickening chuckle, "You guys stay outta this one. Masen here wants me to play fair." Willie and Jett looked sorely disappointed not to be joining in the festivities. They each took a step back as the dejected scowls on their faces became ever more intense.

He sneered at me and I waited for him to throw the first punch. I refused to fight him unless it was in self-defense. Yes, I had willingly put myself in the position to need to defend myself, but it had only been to keep Jewel from harm. I didn't need to wait long, for as soon as Harry saw that I was waiting for him, he stepped up and swung.

When I felt the sting of his bony knuckles connecting with my lip, I growled. I actually growled. A moment of shock flashed across all three boys' faces and I leapt into action. I took one long stride and aimed at his left eye with my right fist. I no more landed one hit and was going for another with my left arm towards his jaw. Willie and Jett were itching to get involved so they could help their so called friend. My first two knocks landed Harry on his backside. I fell roughly on top of him, jabbing my knee in his gut with my fists going in for more damage.

I briefly noted that his cronies had disappeared with stunning quickness, but before I could think about why, I felt large arms wrap around my chest from the back, enclosing my arms, effectively locking them to my sides. When Harry realized I had stopped the beating, he snuck a feeble strike to my stomach right as I was lifted away from him.

The person who had snatched me back righted me to my feet and released their hold. I turned to see that it was Jesse. As he took in Harry's bloodied and bruised face, I swore I saw pride for me in his face, but all too quickly, he shook his head and hooded his face with disappointment.

"You best get outta here, Harry," Jesse grumbled. Harry scurried to his feet and ran like an animal gone to lick their wounds.

"I'm sorry, Jesse." I hung my head in shame for letting myself get carried away. "He was picking on Jewel and I couldn't let him do that. I waited 'til he hit me first," I said, hoping that fact would be my saving grace.

"I'm proud that you stood up for your friend, for a girl. But I'm let down that it came to violence." He had yet to look at me. "I don't know what your fa—" He stopped short of mentioning my father; he never talked about my parents. "I don't know what you were taught, but I don't let my children take part in violence and I won't let you. Come on Grady, the family's waiting to go home."

We walked back to the front of the church in silence. Irene waited there with her children, wringing her hands in worry. She stepped forward, but stopped when Jesse discreetly shook his head at her. Ray was the first to speak.

"Aw, man, Grady. That's some fat lip you got!" I had all but forgotten about my lip and only then tasted the blood on the inside where my teeth had cut in. "Does it hurt? Did you hit him back? What made him hit you? Were Willie and Jett there?" He followed me as the entire family walked back to the wagon, asking a million questions without giving me time to answer. Jesse sat quietly as always while taking us home, but there was something other, something brewing beneath the surface. I knew that Irene saw it too. She looked conflicted.

Jesse finally spoke. "Raymond, that's enough." With that simple phrase, the family fell silent for the rest of the ride.

Once we were home, Irene cleaned my lip with a cloth and seemed hesitant to ask the question that was dying to get out.

"Grady? Can you tell me what happened?" she asked in barely a whisper.

"Harry and his friends stopped us—me and Jewel—and started teasing her. I couldn't let them do it, so I sent her to get help and then Harry hit me first, so I hit him back. I guess I got a little carried away, but that's when Jesse came and stopped me."

"You know, Grady, Jesse and me don't put up with fightin'. We'll have to give you some punishm'nt, but I'll see if'n I can't get Jesse to be easy on ya," she said calmly. She pulled me into a hug—still not one of my mother's hugs, but a close substitute—and added, "I'm proud of you fer stickin up fer Jewel, even if it did end up in a brawl." She giggled lightly and I knew she hadn't been mad, that she only needed to put on a show for discipline's sake.

My punishment was to do extra chores around the farm for a couple of weeks and to go without seeing Jewel. The latter was the true punishment. Although they couldn't keep me from seeing her at school, they were sure to have Louise, their daughter that was also my age, keep an eye out that I didn't interact with Jewel any more than was necessary.

After my scuffle and my two weeks of punishment, life settled into its old familiar routine. There were early morning chores, school, time spent with Jewel and interacting with my artificial family. I loved my family and they loved me, but it was never _my_ family and the love never felt like it ran quite as strong or quite as deep as it had with _my_ family. I don't know if the shallowness was because I constantly compared the new with the old, or if my heart was too broken to let them in fully, or if perhaps I really wasn't as good a fit into their little unit as we had all hoped.

I spent as much time with Jewel as I could. We grew closer still, as friends, for many years. There was the occasional ribbing from our schoolmates about us being in love and such silliness, but I never even considered that an option at the time. She was my precious Jewel, my best friend.

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